“Do you make it a habit, sir, of ignoring a lady’s request to call?”
“Only when the lady in question has a jealous husband…a colonel in the English army, at that. I do cherish my skin.”
“Pooh! I doubt you fear my husband in the least. Besides, Richard cares little if I engage in dalliance.”
“He is a fool, then, to neglect such a beautiful wife.”
The compliment seemed to mollify her only slightly. “Perhaps you should seek out another lady who will dance to your tune.”
“Do you wish me to withdraw, then, Arabella?” The question held skepticism and a lazy amusement.
“I suppose not,” she replied petulantly. “I was facing an evening of unutterable boredom.”
“I shall endeavor to relieve it, if you will permit me.”
“If you can, then I expect I can contrive to forgive you.”
“I am gratified.
” His reply was edged with a smile. “Finding a new object of worship would require too much effort.”
“Do you worship me, sir?” It was a flirtatious, coy remark.
“Indeed, I do, Belle. Behold me enraptured.”
“Hah! You are little better than a knave, sir. A disreputable Scot preying on womenfolk.”
“Surely not preying.”
“We English consider the Highlanders barbarians,” Lady Chivington remarked.
“Which I suspect is part of our appeal,” he returned smoothly. “Confess, you occasionally tire of fops in velvet and lace, with soft hands and powdered wigs.”
She laughed in an apparent capitulation. “Occasionally. But you, sir, could well be a savage. In England you would be considered half naked if you arrived at a ball with your lower limbs exposed.”
“Ah, but I wore my kilt for a reason.”
“And what is that?”
“The better to pleasure you, my dear.”
“Wicked man,” she murmured in a husky, intimate tone. “Is it true a Scotsman wears nought under his kilt but bare skin?”
“You are welcome to discover the answer to that for yourself.”
“A rogue to the very bone,” she breathed. “’Tis scandalous, what you are thinking.”
“Is it, Belle? Can you claim you are not entertaining similar thoughts?” His languid voice dropped to a husky resonance. “Does your heart not beat faster with anticipation at the thought of having a wild heathen inside you?”
Behind the hedge, Sabrina caught her breath at his implication, a flush warming her cheeks. She nearly missed Lady Chivington’s playful reply.
“…claim you are the greatest lover in Europe. By all accounts you’ve made countesses swoon in Paris and brought baronesses to their knees in Venice.”
His laughter held a casual charm. “Modesty prevents me from replying to such an observation.”
“But ’tis true, poets have composed ballads about the amorous adventures of the dashing Highlander, Niall McLaren.”
“An exaggeration, I assure you.”